Not Quite a Witch (Widows of York #1)

Chapter 1

One

Skelton, Yorkshire

No good day had ever started without breakfast. And no bearable one had ever started without a cup of tea.

Agnes Brus’s empty stomach churned violently in neglect, rumbling with resentment. The women standing on either side scrutinized her as some sort of dreadful oddity. Murmurs from the pressing crowd closed in around her.

Her lady’s maid, Kitty, had urged her to eat something, anything, this morning while helping her into her freshly dyed dress. But after just one bite of dry toast, her jaw remained frozen in place. Her tea was left untouched.

Agnes couldn’t recall the last time she had gone without a cup of tea.

It was the first thing she craved each morning, even before finishing her toilette.

For the last six years, she had sipped her aromatic blends—peppermint to encourage a clear mind, fennel when feeling ill, valerian root to calm her nerves—while her husband Richard drank his coffee.

He would read, usually poetry, and Agnes would stare out the drawing room window, watching the people walk by on the cobbled streets. They’d go their own ways, she to her attic apothecary and he to his study, meeting again for pleasant conversation over luncheon.

The woeful noises from her stomach grew louder in the gallery where the guests had gathered.

She straightened her shoulders, willing her body to just be silent, but it revolted in other ways.

The crumbs of that single bite of toast scratched the back of her throat, forcing her to conceal a cough under her handkerchief.

At that moment, the absurdity of it all struck her.

Laughter spilled from her open mouth, and the handkerchief did nothing to muffle the sound.

The women around her not only stared in wide-eyed horror but recoiled, in case her madness was infectious.

Whispers among the crowd swelled in the excitement of witnessing Agnes make a spectacle of herself.

Maybe her body’s odd reaction couldn’t be blamed on the cursed toast alone. It was her husband’s funeral, after all, and Richard would have hated this.

Scanning the room, Agnes recognized members of London’s elite society, people Richard had long distanced himself from in exchange for a quieter life in Yorkshire.

None of them had tried to conceal the scowl on their face, not even when offering their condolences.

Not that it would have mattered. Everyone knew they were only here to snoop around, unwilling to forego the opportunity for another sight of her.

The Witch of York.

That’s what they had called her behind her back when she’d first accompanied Richard to a London charity ball to make her debut as his wife.

Still a bachelor late into his fifties, Richard had been the unobtainable prize of the marriage mart for many seasons.

Not only had he inherited the barony of Skelton, he had invested in the right industries in York as a young man to build upon his father’s wealth.

As the railways created a boom in the city, Richard’s investments had paid well.

Very well. A kind, well-groomed man, mothers had thrown their daughters, if not themselves, at him.

So when Agnes, a woman of twenty, unknown to fashionable society, showed up to the ball on his arm, people assumed he had taken a young wife to produce an heir, and hopefully a spare. But when no such child came along, the rumors spread like moss on the forest floor.

“She got him by witchcraft.”

“She trained in the powers of magic with Lord Skelton’s sister, you know, the witchy one.”

“There’s something not quite right about that one. Watch your husbands. She’ll be looking for her next fortune soon.”

After her introductions, she and Richard had swiftly retreated back to York. People in the city paid little mind to society rumors and even less to rumors of magic. York was certainly home to witches, but Agnes did not practice the craft.

The opinions of Richard’s peers in London bore no meaning on her life. Not then, not now. She just needed these people gone.

Ward had suggested the funeral take place here at Skelton Manor, the country home she and Richard had escaped to from time to time.

Practically it had made sense—there was more space for the horde of guests that would show up for the gossip.

But the butler had also taken care to leave Agnes’s refuge unsullied by prying eyes.

She and Richard had built a quiet life inside the walls of their Bootham townhome, protecting the peace of their own little world in York.

But even that sanctuary had started to crack. Richard’s death hadn’t even been the beginning.

Each passing morning, Richard’s valet took longer to get him out of bed.

Still, Agnes waited for him to come downstairs and sit next to her with his morning cup of coffee in the drawing room.

But his sips grew smaller and slower. As the end neared, Agnes noticed the brown liquid left behind to grow cold in his cup.

The doctors had called it natural decay, and although Agnes’s treatments seemed to slow it, nothing put a stop to his never-ending exhaustion. And then one morning, he simply didn’t wake up.

She had already said her goodbyes, several times, crying over his bedside or lost in memories.

But now, there was a nagging desire to ensure that people saw her mourn Richard, to put an end to the rumors that she had not loved him.

To erase all speculation that she merely coveted his fortune.

Never before had felt it necessary to prove herself, but now that she was alone, her courage didn’t seem sufficient.

Agnes made her way to the coffin set atop the bier in the middle of the gallery, where the scent of the flowers mixed with more organic smells.

She froze, unable to take the final steps.

Every action of hers was reflected in the crowd.

They were all watching her, given away by the subtle ripples of movement.

The whispers surrounded her, more suffocating than the stench of death. “Did you see that she cut his hair? Probably to mix in some potion of hers.”

Only two more hours. Then the guests would make their excuses, take their funeral biscuits, and leave.

Her head felt light, an unsettling sensation contrasting the heaviness sinking in her chest. She had to escape.

A tangle of people stood between her and the double doors leading to the garden, yet the autumn air would be a welcome chill on her face.

The earthy scent of the plants, even as they prepared for hibernation, always grounded her.

Perhaps she could feign some light hysteria. She was a widow now. She might as well use her position to her advantage, but guilt stopped her from making light of the situation. Her grief for Richard cut deep. Raw and real.

Trapped here in the crush of people, Agnes resolved to find a companion in her misery. She scanned the crowd, looking for any familiar face so she wouldn’t have to be alone amongst the whispers.

Just as she was about to surrender, her eyes crashed with a dark blue pair she did recognize. Eyes she had seen briefly back in York in her Bootham foyer, five years ago.

Harry had most certainly been caught staring. Sweat formed on his temples. The tremor in his hands grew more rapid.

He had heard what they were saying about the late Lord Skelton’s demise. Poisoned. Cursed. Outright murdered. What if she thought that he was watching her with the same ire as the other guests?

But over the years as the baron’s accountant, Harry had seen the slow, creeping effects of disease that the doctors just couldn’t figure out.

The baron had grown weaker, his smile more muted.

His skin lost all rosy hints of life, replaced by the pallid complexion of foreboding.

The once-jovial man had accepted his fate, even if he had not spoken it into words.

Harry studied his shoes with the same intensity he gave his winged specimens. If he were to look up now, he might see Lady Skelton still returning his gaze. And if she wasn't, he didn’t trust himself not to keep finding her over and over again in the crowd.

A bead of sweat fell from his hairline, landing on the polished black leather of his shoe. He would stay for the next ten minutes with his eyes cast downward, ask the butler to give Lady Skelton his regards, and sneak out the side door.

Staring at her for so long had been careless. It wouldn’t benefit her reputation, or his, if a society matron saw him gawking at the new widow. The older women had already warned people to keep their distance, else they would be ensnared in the same trap as Lord Skelton.

But he couldn’t will himself to look away.

From the moment she first drifted into the gallery room, she had stolen all free will from his mind.

Maybe the rumors were true and she had him under a spell.

How else could he explain that a woman he had never actually laid eyes on lingered in his thoughts by day and materialized in his dreams by night?

In all of his meetings with the baron, Harry could never devise an excuse to warrant a formal introduction to the man’s wife.

She had kept to herself, supporting Lord Skelton’s success but not involving herself in matters of the estate.

Harry’s tongue froze whenever he had tried to speak her name.

It was impossible to feign polite interest when his obsession with her haunted his life.

To the peerage of London, she was an attic witch mixing potions, using her magic to prey upon men and torment their wives. To him, she was a mysterious presence too enchanting for the common man.

Enough of this. He raised his head and stretched his neck.

Searching for gaps in the overfull room, he planned his getaway.

But his plans were thwarted when a group of men crowded into his corner and blocked all possible escapes.

Lord Skelton had been quite popular for a man who lived such a quiet life.

Curiosity got the better of him. He couldn’t leave yet, not if he could see her just one more time. After all these years, he had finally laid eyes on her again, and this time, she was more than just a shadow in the corridor. He wanted, he needed, to do it again.

Her face had been nothing like what he had envisioned.

All of his previous musings now seemed insufficient.

He had known she would be beautiful. Only a temptress would have a voice like hers.

No matter how far he traveled from York, or how much time had passed, her voice had been his secret companion.

Memories of a green blur often appeared like an apparition in the corner of his vision.

What he hadn’t expected were the midnight curls escaping her cap or the darkness of her widow’s attire illuminating her pale skin. Her cheeks were high, her nose was sharp, and her obsidian eyes—they had been what had gotten Harry into trouble.

He had been trying to take inventory of her appearance, cataloguing feature after feature, committing each one to memory, but her eyes held his gaze with a magnetic force. He hadn’t even recognized she was looking back, until it was too late. Embarrassing fool.

One last look before he left, and he would be sated for another few years.

He knew he was lying to himself, but he had no other choice.

There most certainly had been a mole somewhere on her face.

Not a large wart on the tip of her nose as the London gossip suggested, but a sweet brown marking over her lip.

Even the prettiest of witches have moles.

Harry shook away the ridiculous thought.

She wasn’t really a witch. He did not believe in magic, ghouls, or anything beyond the natural world.

The former Lord Skelton had spoken with admiration of his wife’s abilities, abilities that could be proven through scientific study.

Lady Skelton was said to be able to cure anything with the tinctures, teas, and various remedies she mixed herself.

Which, Harry thought now, did make her seem a little like a witch. But if she really were capable of magic, then surely she would have been able to stop Richard’s death.

Finally gaining confidence, his eyes darted around the room, determined to discover the precise location of that mark on her face, but he didn’t see her. The constraining glares of the visitors must have caused her to retreat.

“Hello there. Mr. Evans, isn’t it?”

Harry’s thoughts froze. His hands trembled, and he pressed his palms together to still them while cursing their betrayal.

The crowd was still thick around him, but it wasn’t too late to run away.

Harry turned, coming face to face with Lady Skelton.

Standing just inches apart, he could not breathe, let alone speak.

“I do apologize for interrupting. You seem to be deep in your thoughts. I am not even sure if it is proper for me to approach you without a formal introduction, but I wanted to thank you for attending. Your association with Richard meant a lot to him.”

Beneath his mustache, moisture formed on his lip. The sound of his own blood drummed in his ears as it rushed to his cheeks. His face must be deep red by now, judging by the intensifying heat beneath his skin. He opened his mouth. Silence.

Say something, anything.

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, and her eyes glistened. “I will just leave you to yourself . . . and your thoughts then.”

He was the worst kind of man, making a new widow nearly cry at her husband’s funeral.

Speaking required air, so he inhaled. A loud whooshing sound accompanied the rush of air to his lungs.

Several men glanced in his direction then quickly turned away, not wanting to witness the awkwardness that was Harold Evans.

He couldn’t even breathe normally, at least not around women.

“Are you all right, Mr. Evans?” Her eyes seemed to dry instantly, their shimmer replaced by concern.

“Ye-yes. Please, I’d like to speak with you.

” That revealed more than Harry had intended.

Couldn’t he have just said that it was his honor to be there?

Pay his respects to the woman’s dead husband?

Give her his condolences like a regular member of society?

But instead, his mouth opened of its own accord and out came more stupid words. “Let’s go outside.”